Medical school tests you everyday. You often wonder whether you’ll have the strength to pass the next academic evaluation, say the appropriate words in the next patient interaction, or have the emotional fortitude to confront the next tragic illness. When taking on these challenges, I have more and more thought about my dad.
My dad is a cancer surgeon who served as one of my biggest inspirations for entering medical school. When I was younger, he shared with me notes from patients who were immensely grateful that he had saved their lives, giving me insight into the emotional weight and personal fulfilment behind the profession of medicine. He is one of the most hardworking people I know, regularly plugging away at all hours of the day and night. He gives off a persona that is both indestructible and immensely compassionate.
A few years ago, my dad started having major cardiovascular issues. He was diagnosed with a mild form of blood cancer, for which he must permanently take a chemotherapy drug that confers a ~5% risk of leukemia. Later, he was hospitalized for a heart arrhythmia and suffered from a transient ischemic attack (aka a mini-stroke), causing him to be put on lifelong blood thinners. He now constantly worries any time he bumps into something, having seen the fallout of countless bleeding complications in his patients on these medications. Fortunately though, he is currently doing well and is able to keep up with his relentless work schedule. Nevertheless, his significant family history of strokes puts him at high risk for future problems.
While nothing catastrophic has happened yet, there is something strange about recognizing the mortality of your parents. The news of my dad’s hospitalization came as a seemingly innocuous call from my mom while I was walking down the busy New York streets. Dodging through pedestrians and honking traffic, I barely noticed the vibrating ring in my pocket and expected just a regular check-in when picking up the phone.
“Your dad’s in the hospital.”
Without warning, I was thrown into a whirlwind of worry that the man who had consistently served as a guiding light in my life would be taken away. I felt powerless to help thousands of miles away from home.
My dad was lucky to make it out without issue. One of my best friends recently had a similar experience, but her dad – who suffered a concomitant heart attack and stroke – may never be the same. Walking down the street, I now sometimes find myself wondering what would happen if I received another phone call where my dad wasn’t so lucky this time. How would I react? I wonder if I would be an upset mess. As the oldest of my siblings, perhaps instead I could be a source of strength for my mom and younger sisters.
Thinking about living life without my dad reminds me of the immense responsibility he has handled as a doctor. While grappling with learning basic clinical facts as a second-year medical student, I wonder whether I will be able to successfully handle that responsibility when I become a physician. While shadowing surgeries, I try to picture myself navigating that tissue cut, manipulating that suture, and then communicating anything that went wrong to the patient. Those days seem far away but I know they are rapidly approaching. I guess getting older makes you realize that even those who appear indestructible can fall. As I consider my role as a son, brother, and soon-to-be doctor, I hope I can be someone who can take their place.
Am I ready?